Two Hearts In Ink

I usually love Sundays. It's always a busy day for me because it's the start of a new writing week, but it's also when I find the most time to sit with God. I get up early to watch a local church online, and when it's done I wake my youngest for the day. We get dressed, get ready, and head out to our home church together—and most Sundays, those moments of worship are the only ones I get to let go of emotional exhaustion. In a life spent juggling multiple chronic illnesses, parenting a neurodivergent child, juggling autism and emotional awareness, and struggling to build a career as a writer...those are the small moments that matter most.

In those moments, when my hands are raised and my eyes are closed and I stand surrounded by likeminded believers, I'm not just another random person holding on in hard times. I'm not debating the difference between being seen and overlooked. I'm not searching for emotional connection or worried about being understood. It may be a crowded room, but in those healing moments of surrender to faith, I stop feeling like an overwhelmed mom and I bask in the joy of feeling held. Feeling seen, by the kind of quiet love that's somehow just for me...and also just for everyone else.

I don't talk about my faith here often—not because it's private or unimportant, but because I know a great deal of my readers are not Christians and I want to be both open and respectful. You don't need to be a Christian to find yourself caught in the balance of unseen vs seen, you don't need to be a Christian to hunger for simple moments of connection, and you don't have to sit in church to wonder what it feels like to be truly seen by the people around you.

Because noticing the little things and learning to recognize real love in small moments is universal, no matter what you believe.

I've been a Christian for over twenty years, but some days, walking into church is hard for me. There are days when I'm feeling stung by people who do or say hurtful things. Days when I struggle with the vulnerability of everyday connection, especially in a spiritual setting. Days when the scars of old wounds hurt all over again, and I walk in with my eyes down because no matter deeply I long to know what it feels like to be truly seen, I still wonder sometimes if safe love—especially love in hard seasons—is even real.

Some Sundays, I tiptoe into church carrying more than I have words for. I avoid conversations because I'm afraid someone will ask me how I am...and I'm afraid they'll know me well enough not to settle for, "I'm fine! You?"

The thing is, it's not always dramatic. Sometimes it's just a quiet kind of heaviness, hanging from the ache in my chest where joy and satisfaction should be. Like an emotional shadow that follows me from room to room, task to task. And I smile around it and push myself to function in the spaces between it, because even if I could explain it, talking about it would make it seem bigger than I want it to be.

Today was one of those days.

But I showed up. I sat beside my youngest daughter, silenced my phone, sipped my water. Went through the motions, and told myself to get through it, because the days you least want to are often the days you most need to.

We stood for worship, and as the music sank into the ache, I let stress and sadness and heartache bleed through the tears slipping silent down my face. Eyes closed, I raised my hands to the truest sense of safety I've ever known, and for a little while, I let go of worrying about my business, my children, my finances, my car, my aching left knee with the probably-torn meniscus. And as the music faded, my daughter and I settled into our seats. Just like always.

Except not.

My youngest isn't usually very cuddly. She's the quiet one, the serious one. The one who often has to work harder because autism makes emotion and social cues difficult for her. We've worked hard at it though, and these days, she's playful, witty, and the kind of fun where you crack surprisingly harsh jokes with each other and no one gets hurt. Still, she struggles to pick up subtle vibes. She doesn't often notice shifting moods.

But this morning as we sat together, she shifted a little closer. And then she did it again. And as her head settled on my shoulder, I felt as if she'd heard something I hadn't said. Like she'd quietly read a sign I hadn't posted. She shifted again, sinking more snugly into my side as I set my arm around her shoulders. She sighed as we listened to the pastor, her head resting just beneath my chin. Before long, she was holding my hand, her short little fingers laced with mine.

And after a while, she grabbed a pen and started drawing. Two hearts. One large, one small. Her right hand, my left. Tiny doodles, ink on skin, drafted in the quiet between whispers. A simple act of recognition in a moment most people wouldn't have noticed. Balm to a wound most people wouldn't see.

And she held our hands up, still linked as the service ended. "Look, Mom. Matching tattoos!"

*****

There might always be a part of me that wants to believe the big moments in life are the ones that define us. The milestones, the turning points, the adversities we overcome, the relationships that aren't always easy to hold. The wounds often remembered and spoken of long after they've passed.

But more and more, I'm learning to appreciate the smaller moments—those quiet acts of love that carry more truth than all the rest. The moments where action speaks louder than words ever could, and patterns have visible meaning that stands the test of time.

Unexpected curiosity. Soup cans at your door when you're sick. The friend who texts to say, "You've been distant lately. What's going on?" The shifting weight of a wholly independent teen against your shoulder, a hand reaching for yours in the quiet...and two hearts inked on skin, simply because someone noticed the heaviness you couldn't speak of out loud.

These little things don't need to announce themselves, and they aren't driven by visibility. They don't fix everything, and they can't erase the hard part of life. But maybe they ease the weight just a little, and remind you that even in the middle of exhausted uncertainty, you are not as unseen as you may feel.

And it's not always easy to notice those moments without dismissing them. To recognize when love shows up quietly, just to remind us that it's there. But sometimes, it's enough to notice it and let it be what it is. To find comfort in those small things, and hold that comfort close. Because so often, it is those small things that help us...

There's a special magic in truly choosing to show up for each other, and every reader who shares their time and emotional energy with me is a precious part of how and why I write the way I do. Now, I'd like to make that as simple as possible for you—with free updates you don't have to search for. Sign up here!